Because of Her
by orianna-2000
Summary: Now that Christine has unmasked him, Erik must face his own image and the truth he never knew. An excerpt from the story found in "Phantom Variations: Tales From the World of the Opera Ghost"
1. I: Unmask the Monster

_This is a non-profit work of fan-fiction based upon _The Phantom of the Opera_ novel. All related characters, places, and events, belong to Gaston Leroux and are used without permission. This story, and all original content, belongs to the author, © 2005, 2008.

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**Because of Her**  
by Orianna-2000

--oOo--

_How in the name of Heaven can he escape  
That defiling and disfigured shape  
The mirror of malicious eyes  
Casts upon his eyes until at last  
He thinks that shape must be his shape?_  
– William Butler Yeats

--oOo--

**I. **_**Unmask the Monster**_

Ugly. Disgusting. Abomination. Monstrosity. These are the first words I learned, thanks to a mother who could not even bear to look at me. My mother destroyed all of the mirrors in our house before I could see my reflection. To save me the nightmares sure to come after seeing the hideous creature staring back at me? Perhaps, but more likely to prevent—even for a fragile moment—the existence of _two_ of me.

My earliest memory is of my mother's face screwed up in revulsion as she dangled measuring strings near my head. Not long after, I received the only gift she would ever offer me: a mask. The kid leather felt soft against my baby cheeks, but the constricting material soon left me with raw marks of chafing and a suffocating feeling of claustrophobia.

How much of a child's life is irrevocably set within the first few years? How much influence does a mother truly have? Before I could walk, I learned to steal; if I didn't take what I needed, I would be left in solitude to suffer, to starve. Before I could talk, I learned to be silent and unobtrusive; if I called attention to myself, invariably I drew pitying gazes from those who hadn't seen my face, and expressions of loathing from those who had. I grew to love the darkness, for then I could wander out of the cramped confines of my nursery and into the mysterious outdoors without fear.

In the darkness, I watched and learned the true nature of mankind. "Man has dominated man to his injury," wrote a famous wise king. Nothing had changed in the thousands of years since Solomon penned those sobering words. I recognized that man cannot tolerate anything weaker than himself, or different from himself. A man may woo the woman he desires with gentle words and tenderness, but he truly wishes only to posses her. Once he does, he treats her as he sees her: a weak, useless vessel. And as for someone like myself, someone whose very face is a reminder of what awaits us all in the end—I am treated no better than a corpse, something to be shunned and avoided, lest the unwary become unclean by my very gaze.

Even as an adult, I clung to the traditions that childhood taught me: stay in the shadows; draw no attention; avoid mirrors and places of still waters; and the utmost imperative: do not yearn for what cannot be.

Desire is a sin. It _must_ be, for nothing else causes such pain. Man will do anything to achieve what he desires—steal, lie, murder. I have but one overwhelming longing, and I have committed many deeds of evil in the pursuit of _Christine_.

Her name falls from my tongue like a prayer, as though merely thinking of her will cleanse my soul. I would do _anything_ for her. The one thing she would require of me, however, is beyond my control.

You see, Christine has heard my voice. She has listened to me sing, she has seen my shadow upon her wall, and she has viewed her own reflection in the mirror, knowing I am nearby. She has touched the delicate petals of a rosebud, feeling the silky velvet beneath her fingertips in exactly the same manner as I did before leaving it for her. She knows I exist, and has seen proof of it in every way imaginable—except for one.

She has not seen me.

I have never felt the desire to have a normal face. What good is normal to me? I would much rather lurk in the darkness and be myself! If it were not for Christine, I would long since have faded away. For her alone, I would wish upon myself the features of a proper, commonplace man, only so that she might look upon my face without terror.

But it is no use. One cannot turn a gargoyle into a prince, even when one dares to dream of such lofty things as winning the love of a beautiful maiden.

--oOo--

What have I done?

I am foolish, indeed, to have even thought of bringing Christine to my home. Now all of my carefully-wrought plans have dissolved into thin air. Yet, how could I have resisted? She wanted to meet me. She wanted to spend time with her maestro—not talking to a voice that floats from the walls. I cannot blame her for wishing to be with me, when that is all I have dreamed of since I first saw her.

Truly, my idiocy knows no bounds. Not only did I bring her to my house, my secret haven, but I also warned her never to touch the mask that hides my gruesome face. I should have remembered that women cannot be counted upon to obey that which is strictly forbidden! Literature is full of those given a trust in which they promptly broke because of their infernal feminine curiosity: Pandora and the box of evil spirits, Eve and the tree of knowledge.

I heard her footsteps, so light and gentle upon the Persian carpets that adorn my study. She wanted to listen to my music, or so I thought. Believing myself safe, I allowed the melody to envelop me. Who could resist the power of such music? For Christine, though, the desire to see my face overwhelmed the force of enthralling harmony.

Before I realized that she'd even crept close enough to touch me, cold air struck my cheeks, stinging my fragile skin. The deformity that rendered me less than human in the eyes of all who saw it—exposed in the space of a heartbeat. A layer of thin silk and linen is scant protection, but until that moment, I hadn't realized how desperately I depended on that mask!

I turned, roaring in anger and despair, clutching my fingers to my face in a frantic attempt to hide from Christine. I could not let her see! She would scream, or perhaps even faint. She would run, she would hide from the gruesome visage of her maestro, and I knew I would never see her again, for she would hate me as deeply as my own mother hated me.

In my abrupt, desperate movements, I must have knocked her to the ground, for Christine knelt beside the organ with her skirts spread about in colorful contrast to the dark tones of the rug. With my hands still stretched across my face, I lowered my head and allowed my hair to fall forward, hoping it would conceal some small part of my monstrous features. Hot tears of shame ran from my eyes, between my fingers, blurring my vision. I blinked furiously and cast my gaze about.

I had to find my mask!

"Erik?" she said softly. She hadn't seen yet, or else hadn't understood, for I heard no panic in her voice. Still, the sound cut into my heart like a blade. I knew it might be the last time I heard her sweet voice in anything other than a shriek of condemnation.

I spread the fingers of one hand to cover as much of my face as possible and searched blindly with the other. Where had my mask gone? The bench upon which I sat? The floor nearby? I had to find it!

"Erik. . . ?"

A gentle hand touched my questing fingers. I pulled back in startled dismay. Hardly daring to look, I saw the black curve of my mask resting in the last place I expected—Christine's lap. If I lunged for it, she would have a clear, if brief, view of my face. Pride would not let me ask for it, so I turned away, grasping a semblance of dignity. I squared my shoulders and wiped the moisture from my scarred cheeks. A few more moments and I would be strong enough . . . either to request the return of my mask, or to allow her to leave. Either way, I knew my pitiful heavenly dream had ended.

_(To Be Continued. . . .)_


	2. II: Reveal the Man

**II. **_**Reveal the Man**_

Christine held that scrap of silk in her small hand, not knowing what her actions had cost us. I could not keep my back to her forever, my face hidden from her curious eyes. At any moment, I would hear her exquisite soprano range in full glorious detail, but raised in screams of horror and disgust rather than in song.

So hard did I concentrate on remembering the last moments of tranquility before disaster struck, embroidering them onto my mind and heart for future recall, that I did not hear the first words Christine spoke to me. When I did at last hear, I listened with little credulity.

"It does not matter what you look like," she said, so quietly. "I know you are not an angel. I know you are just a man. You need not hide your face from me. Please . . . will you not turn around?"

I began to laugh: not a gentle chuckle, but a raw, taunting sound. The girl _wanted_ to see my face! The sight would send her into a fit of hysteria, perhaps even scar her for life . . . and yet she wanted me to face her, unmasked. Ignorance lends courage, indeed! Reason told me to refuse and demand the return of my mask, but then an irrational indignation surged within me. She wanted to see me? Well then! If the little fool _wanted_ such a thing so badly, who was I do deny her?

With my handkerchief, I dabbed remnants of moisture away from the odd angles of my face, then combed the thinning strands of hair back with my fingers. At the very least, I should look presentable, should I not? Another harsh laugh shook me. Bitter sarcasm rose into my throat as I said, "I never could deny you anything, my dear!"

Then I pivoted on one heel and presented myself to Christine in all my hideous glory.

I could have counted my own pounding heartbeats while Christine scrutinized my appearance. Only a few moments passed, but they stretched into an agonizing eternity. My eyes met hers, and I waited for the obligatory shrieking to begin. After a long, drawn out silence, it became apparent that she would not be screaming. Well, then, I would have to be quick to catch her when she fell. . . .

Yet she did not faint, either. Christine's eyes widened almost imperceptibly and her breath came a little quicker than usual. Her cheeks flushed with color, where I had expected the whiteness of shock. All in all, she seemed to be facing the living corpse rather bravely.

"You . . . you are not afraid?" I asked finally, to break the awful silence.

The candlelight caught the edges of her hair as she shook her head, turning the pale golden locks into a halo. "Should I be?"

I had no answer for that. As I stared, dumbfounded, Christine advanced toward me, blue eyes fixed intently on my face. Her skirts rustled with each step, the sound of an angel's wings beating. My first instinct was to back away, but I forced myself to hold my ground, to see what this strange creature would do. Her gaze traveled the boundaries of my face, flicking from my forehead, to my nose, to my cheeks. . . .

One delicate hand reached toward me and I closed my eyes, uncertain whether to be mortified or thrilled. Light as a butterfly, her fingers grazed my skin. I shuddered at the sensation. How could she bear the corpse-like texture beneath her pure fingertips? _I_ had never possessed courage enough to touch my own face without the barrier of a handkerchief or washcloth, knowing the appalling distortions that would meet my questing hands. She traced the outline of my features—across my cheekbone, down my jaw—leaving a trail of cool fire that sank into my flesh.

At last, she spoke. "I was wrong."

My heart plummeted. I dared not open my eyes. To my shame, tears began to fall once again, coursing down my cheeks. The stinging trails vanished, though, under a warm, soft pressure. I felt the gesture repeated on the other side of my face, and knew, somehow, that the strange motion was a kiss.

_A kiss!_

"I was wrong," Christine repeated. "You are not just a man—you are an angel come to earth. And I love you." Her cheeks remained flushed as she stepped back. She did not meet my gaze, but looked away in embarrassment.

I had been trapped in bizarre dreams before, unable to wake from the nightmare surrounding me. This, however, surpassed _anything_ I had experienced. The fragile hope that had dared to rise inside me burst in a flame of anger. "You jest, madame! I do not know how you keep your expression from revealing your horror, but I am not one to be teased!"

Her eyes widened in surprise and her lips crumpled in protest. I would not listen. Screams and sobs I could deal with, had even expected, but this savage mockery was beyond comprehension. Determined to expose her fraudulent ways, I savagely grabbed her by the wrist, forcefully pulling her with me as I stalked out of my house. I had never dared possess a looking glass, but the water of the lake ought to reflect my features well enough.

At the last moment, I swiped a candelabrum from the small table in the entryway. The light would be feeble against the thick darkness surrounding my underground home, but it would illuminate well enough to expose whatever game Christine dared to play. I knelt at the dock, jerking her down to the water's edge. The water rippled ever so slightly, but three blossoms of light clearly refracted from the surface. Yes, the candlelight would be enough.

"Look!" I hissed, "and tell me you do not see the face of Death himself staring at you!"

Christine quivered in my grasp. "What are you talking about? Erik, you're frightening me! Let's go back inside—"

"No. Not until you _see_!"

"I see _you_, Erik. What more do you wish?"

Angered, I thrust the light up high and bent my upper body out over the water. "I want you to look at me! See the truth, and then tell me . . . tell me. . . ." I faltered, seeing my own reflection for the first time: my skin, such an ugly shade of yellow; my hair, dark and receding from a broad forehead; my eyes, possessed by shadows so deep that they seemed hidden in black holes; my lips, thin and pale, and twisted in vexation. Truly, as horrid a vision as I'd been told!

I leaned closer, filled with macabre interest. With my movements, the shadows shifted and eased the stark lines that had been there moments ago. Seen up close, my eyes lost their sunken appearance. I turned my head this way and that, yet I could find no scars or twisted flesh, no veins bulging through dead skin.

"My face," I murmured, confused. I glanced up at Christine, who stared back at me without dread. Unable to accept this bizarre discovery, I lowered my head once again over the water's surface. Surely my second glimpse had been flawed by imagination. Yes, indeed—my eyes were set back too deeply, my cheekbones too severe. I looked hideous and grotesque, just as my mother had said.

Didn't I?

I heard Christine call my name and looked up to see her standing near me with her hand outstretched. Dazed and unsettled, I took her hand and stood, but could not help glancing back toward the water. Surely these last few moments had been a mistake. If I looked again, I would view my true likeness: that of the repulsive beast my mother had always assured me I would see, had she not destroyed all of the mirrors in the house.

Yet, the vague reflection I had seen looked like any other man—one I might pass on the street or in the hallways of the Opera above. Swelling panic stopped me in mid-step. Urgently, I gripped Christine's wrist and brought her hand up to my cheek. "What do you see? Tell me, or I shall die!"

"I see my angel," she said without hesitation, curving her hand across my skin.

"Yes, but—" I gestured toward the water with agitation. "That! Is _that_ what you see? An ordinary man? Is this face that you touch . . . normal?"

When she shook her head, I felt a small degree of relief. My world hadn't turned upside down after all. That is, until she spoke.

"Perhaps I am biased, Erik. As you stood behind my mirror, I envisioned you with the face of an archangel, crafted by God himself. Now that I see you . . . I cannot disagree." The blush returned to her pretty cheeks.

Dear God.

The child actually thought me . . . handsome? What kind of madness had I been thrust into? I turned away from Christine, trying to escape the twisted revelations that spun through my mind. Throughout my entire childhood, my mother told me that I was a monster—that my very presence nauseated her. Her malevolent words echoed through the years, always haunting me. Repulsive, she'd called me. Disgusting, ill-favored, loathsome, grotesque. She'd never let up, always impressing upon me the foul nature of my existence. Yet, at the same time, hadn't she discouraged me from ever wanting to see my own reflection? A sick horror began to rise in my belly. I had not looked upon my own face until now _because of her_.

Her firm allegations that the world would hate me had convinced me to shun society. Because of her strict discipline, I had learned to exist without the things most men take for granted: sunlight, companionship, freedom, and love. Her constant, morbid dread of anyone seeing me is what drove me to hide my face, and cloak my body in shadows. She had instilled such fear in me that I now lived in the bowels of an Opera House, afraid to go above into the daylight.

And for what?

Until now, I had always stolen what I needed to survive, and felt no regret in the taking; my face ensured that no one would ever offer legitimate employment or offer gifts of charity. Because of her, I killed, lest someone see my hideousness and strike me first. Because of her . . . I became a murderer.

I had believed her, and because of that, I became the very monster she always told me I was!

Numbness overtook me, immobilizing the nausea that threatened to overwhelm me. I didn't actually feel the outrage pumping through my body with every beat of my heart. I didn't notice the harsh breaths I took as Christine gently led me back into the house.

I felt nothing at all.

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_**Author's Note:** The above is an excerpt from "Because of Her". The complete version of this story can be found in the published anthology: _**Phantom Variations: Tales From the World of the Opera Ghost** (edited by H.D. Kingsbury) under the pen-name Orianna Duomille.


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